


Island Getaway

by pukajen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4144092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes, but when you said we should get out of the city and maybe combine a case with an island vacation, I was thinking that you meant Santorini, Majorca, Ibiza, or maybe even Tenerife.” Turning his head, John glared at Sherlock. “Not bloody Scotland in March.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very huge thank you to SoundingSea for the fantastic beta work around her frankly ridiculous schedule.
> 
> This is for the Challenge 20 over on tumblr's Let's Write Sherlock group.
> 
> I've finished writing this - there will be two more chapters - chapter two is going through beta right now as I tweak chapter three.

“You're looking tired,” John mumbled. His voice was pitched significantly lower than usual, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared straight ahead through relentless rain and choppy waters and into the grey nothingness ahead of them as the MV Finlaggan ferry steadily made her way to Port Askaig. “We should get away from London for a couple of days," he continued snidely. "Let the press find someone else to bother.”

“Those are all still valid points,” Sherlock said, setting two paper cups of tea down on the table in front of them before sliding into the vacant seat to John's left.

“Yes, but when you said we should get out of the city and maybe combine a case with an island vacation, I was thinking that you meant Santorini, Majorca, Ibiza, or maybe even Tenerife.” Turning his head, John glared at Sherlock. “Not bloody Scotland in March.” 

“It's not my fault you theorized ahead of the data,” Sherlock said primly.

Rather than punch him, John picked up his tea and proceeded to burn his tongue when he took his first sip. He slammed the cup down on the table hard enough to crumple the paper and pop the top, causing some tea to spill out and burn his hand. “Fucking perfect.”

After the story of Mary's part in faking Moriarty's return (and her own pregnancy) had broken, the press had pretty much camped outside 221 Baker Street for the last two weeks, ignoring the fact that John hadn't lived with her for her for the better part of a year. The fact that she had used a false name had leaked and John was also hounded about questions as to the validity of his marriage. Which, he was relieved to learn, meant that he wasn't married. 

That juicy fact had finally hit the mainstream media three days ago.

“I thought getting away from all the press who were hounding you in London would be a good thing," Sherlock said, looking perplexed. "It's not my fault you assumed we were going somewhere popular.”

“Not popular, touristy.” Vague fantasies of iced drinks with little umbrellas on the beach while he and Sherlock lounged around, occasionally slathering each other's backs in suncream, circled John's brain before getting shoved aside. “Places that are popular for people from England to go to get away from the cold, grey, never-ending rain of winter.”

“Places like that will be filled with drunken idiots trying to pull as many strangers as possible and hoping not to get the type of souvenir that requires a trip to a doctor and a dose of antibiotics.”

“Charming,” John muttered. “People don't go to those place just for sex.” It wasn't as if he had been planning on pulling any strangers. “They go to get warm, to see the sun." John glared out at the storm. "To forget about how miserable England is in the winter.”

“Well, we're not in England anymore," Sherlock pointed out blandly.

“Scotland isn't a better option!” John shouted.

“I wouldn't say that too loudly to the Scots, if I were you, John.”

“Piss off.” 

With a name like John Hamish Watson, he wasn't too worried about getting his arse kicked. Plus, the people here weren't stupid; they knew that the weather wasn't exactly the warm getaway kind.

“There will be whisky.” Sherlock offered, by way of trying to make peace.

“No,” John countered, “there will be the tease of whisky as we muck about the Bowmore distillery trying to find their ridiculously expensive bottle of whisky for them.”

“It was a very rare bottle from 1957 that was kept in an alarmed display case.”

“Well, I hope whoever took it had the good sense to drink it right away.” He needed caffeine, loads of it, if he was going to be following Sherlock around in the miserable weather once they reached Islay. Deciding that what was left of his tea had cooled sufficiently, John gingerly picked up his cup and took a sip.

It turned out that the tea was the same on Scottish ferries as it was on English trains: crap. However, it was caffeinated crap and that was what mattered at this point.

“In all probability," Sherlock said after several minutes of silence, "whoever stole that bottle was hoping for a great deal more than a nice dram with friends. There are only a dozen known bottles left in existence. When the distillery auctioned off one in 2012, it sold for £100,000.”

John choked on his tea. Once he got his breathing under control, John set aside his cup and decided it might be best to just to forget about drinking any more for the moment.

“For a bottle of whisky?” John asked incredulously. 

“Very good whisky.”

“It had bloody well better be for a hundred grand.”

They sat in silence as the ferry made her way through the steady rain that was now turning into a pretty impressive downpour. The mild chop at the start of their journey less than thirty minutes ago was now becoming waves that were big enough to rock the boat. The squall that had forced the cancellation of their flight to Islay was upon them. 

Now that they were on the edge of what looked to be a fairly nasty storm, John was glad that they'd ended up having to divert to Glasgow, then hiring a car and driving at a frankly terrifying rate – Sherlock might be a very competent driver, but he also drove as if he were in the pole position at an F1 race – that had managed to cut the two and three-quarters hours drive down to the ferry terminal in Kennacraig to two and a quarter. 

The whole reason John now had a driver's license was so that he would never ever have to be a passenger in a car driven by Sherlock. Sherlock, however, grabbed the keys from the car hire agent and slid into the driver's side, chuckling gleefully as he'd revved the engine of their Vauxhall Insignia and peeled out of the hire car's carpark at a reckless pace.

To say nothing of the speeds he maintained through villages and towns.

John was sure that there were some very angry people who were even now complaining to the local constabulary about Sherlock's driving. 

Idly, John wondered if there was a special form to fill out that just pertained to Sherlock and his antics for various law enforcement officials. 

Perhaps with boxes to check: Insulted witness. Caused victim to cry uncontrollably. Had suspect throwing punches. Overall dick. 

Trying not to snicker at his musings – getting up at half three to make it to the airport in time for their charter flight was not doing his thought process any good. Despite the dubious taste of the tea, he would definitely need more. Maybe the coffee would be better – John turned his mind back to the problem at hand. 

“Do you really think you'll be able to solve this in six hours?” John asked, picking up his cup and downing the last of his fairly awful and now cold tea. 

“Three should be sufficient time,” Sherlock said, while fiddling with his phone. “I think there's something wrong with my mobile; give me yours.”

“If you can do it in three hours, why the fuck did we have to get up so early?”

“I wanted to make sure we could be back in London in time to miss evening rush hour.”

“Well, that's not going to happen now. What with not being able to fly and needing to spend four sodding hours on two different ferries.”

“The weather is hardly my fault.” Sherlock glared at him then sneered at the pelting rain, fists clenching as the boat rolled at the biggest wave yet. “May I have your phone?”

Knowing full well that if he didn't hand it over Sherlock would just take it from him forcibly, John sighed and held it out.

“Won't work any better than yours,” John told him.

“You don't know what's wrong with mine.”

“No signal.”

“Could be something wrong with my mobile.”

“Or it could be that there's no signal out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“We're still in civilization,” Sherlock said as he turned John's mobile off and back on, drumming his fingers impatiently as he waited for it to reboot. “Well, civilization as defined by a select few idiots.”

“Yes," John said, ignoring Sherlock's last comment, "but what you didn't pay attention to as you were driving like James bloody Hunt was that as soon as we left Glasgow, I lost LTE. By the time we got to Inveraray I was flipping between 4G and 3. And about ten minutes later, I was happy just see any signal.”

“I told you, you need a new phone.”

“I don't need a new phone. We're in the wilds of Scotland.” John looked out the window. “Not even the wilds; we've left the wilds behind and are currently on the ocean with ever-increasing waves. Where the fuck do you think Orange would put a bloody cell tower?”

“I knew that Vodafone didn't get signal up here—”

“That's because Vodafone is absolute rubbish.”

“They work perfectly well in London.”

“We're not in London now, are we?”

“They were fine when I was in Iceland, and India, and Egypt,” Sherlock said, looking out to the storm. If possible, he was becoming paler than normal.

“Well, are we in any of those places right now?” John demanded. 

“No. However, Vodafone is an English company, so they should have excellent service all over the country.”

“I hate to tell you this, Sherlock, but Scotland is in fact its own country.”

“Oh, come on, John, Scotland is English the same way Wales is.”

Nervously, John looked around, but they were the only two people sitting up this far – most were closer to the middle of the boat where the televisions and electrical outlets were located.

“Watch what you say about Scotland not being its own country.” John leaned in. “We're about to be on a relatively small island with people who may or may not have voted to become their own country not two years ago and could still be angry.”

“People are always angry," Sherlock said dismissively. Giving up on the trying to get signal, Sherlock handed John back his mobile. 

“Yeah, but Scottish autonomy is a touchy subject and as you set people off all the time, this might be one subject you want to add to the 'how to piss people off' section of your Mind Palace and make sure you don't use it.”

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed out. “How am I to work without being able to do research? This ferry ride is a complete waste of time.”

“Well, I, for one, am going to see if I can kip over there on the long couch for the next hour or so.” Sleep would do him some good before he had to go haring off after Sherlock in the middle of a Scottish storm. 

“Why do you need sleep?” Sherlock's leg was bouncing up and down, a sure sign he was looking to distract himself at John's expense. Well, at anyone's expense, but as John was often the closest he was the one that bore the brunt of Sherlock's strops. 

“Because I had to wake up at half three for this island getaway that turned out to be nothing more than some idiot plan to go up to Islay for less than a day to try and find some posh bottle of whisky that's either been drunk or sold.”

“I doubt it's been sold. Not with this storm.”

“It could have been—” 

“Yes, yes." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "An internet buyer, but even if it has been sold, there's no way it could have left Islay. Not with this fucking storm.”

John sat up straight and looked at Sherlock in sheer amazement. Not the usual amazement of Sherlock putting together a theory out of the most minute of clues, but because in all the years that John had known Sherlock, he'd only heard him swear twice before: once when an acid mixture had melted through a container and started to burn through his trousers and his thigh, and the other when enraged at the incompetence of the new forensics team for having contaminated a crime scene for a fairly horrific triple murder -- one which included the brutal killing of family's two Irish setters -- destroying vital evidence. 

“What's wrong?” John asked, taking in again how pale Sherlock was, the way his fingers drummed on the table top, and noted that now both of his legs were bouncing up and down. 

“Nothing is wrong except that my time is now being wasted because of a stupid storm that any pilot worth his training should have been able to fly through.”

“Well, as neither of us are pilots, I think I'll leave the decisions about aviation safety to those who have trained for years to know about such things.”

“It's just a storm, not even that big.” Even as he spoke the boat pitched, their now empty tea cups sliding along the table.

John watched Sherlock's knuckles turn white when his hands clenched into fists with each roll and pitch of the boat. 

Oh. 

As a doctor, John should have noted the telltale signs much sooner.

He was an idiot.

Doing a thorough examination of Sherlock, John took in his elevated pulse, the way beads of perspiration were forming at his temples and above his upper lip, his quick breaths, and the now greenish cast to his face. 

Sherlock was getting seasick. And, if his watch was right, there was still another hour and ten minutes before they reached Port Askaig. 

Assuming the ferry was able to maintain her schedule with the waves and wind. 

Maybe there was a store on board that sold Dramamine or Stugeron. Even an antihistamine would help.

“I'm going to get more tea. Do you want anything?” John asked, knowing the best way to get any medication into Sherlock would be to just hand off the tablets with as little fuss as possible. 

“I'm fine,” Sherlock said, though he clearly was not.

The little shop had non-drowsy Stugeron and packets of candied ginger in great supply. Obviously, Caledonian Macbrayne Ferries knew what many of their passengers might need. There were also some sort of acupressure bands that claimed to prevent all forms of motion sickness, but John dismissed those as he knew Sherlock would scoff at them. 

“Got someone not doing so well with the high seas?” asked the woman at the till as he handed over a tenner to pay for both items.

“Yeah, my friend's not feeling so well,” John said as he pocketed his change. 

“Try sitting in the middle of the boat and have them stare at a fixed spot. When we get closer to land, have them look at where the horizon and land meet.”

“Ta.” Smiling in thanks, John picked up both the medication and the ginger. 

After a quick stop at the cafe, getting Sherlock a ginger tea and a bottle of water, and himself another black tea – he would prefer coffee, but at this point anything could set Sherlock off and coffee had a much stronger odour than tea – John made his way back to the front of the ship.

“Here,” John said, setting both the box of Stugeron and the bag of candied ginger in front of Sherlock. “Try both to see if they help.”

Without saying a word, Sherlock tore open the white box and popped out two tablets, swallowing them dry.

“Take them with water,” John advised, twisting the top off the water bottle. 

It was a sign of how poorly Sherlock was feeling that he took the water obediently and drank. 

For the rest of the crossing, they sat in tense silence as Sherlock grimly nibbled on two pieces of candied ginger. Not wanting to do anything that could make things worse, John stayed as still as possible and watched the rain pelt the windows. 

There were some moments when the ship pitched violently enough that John worried for their car, but more that he was sure that Sherlock was about to make a dash for the loo, but by sheer force of will – or so it seemed to John – Sherlock wasn't ill. 

When the announcement was made for passengers to return to their vehicles, John stood.

“You can stay here until we're docked. I'll go down to the car,” John offered.

“No, I'm better now,” Sherlock said, standing. Though, John noticed, he carefully put both the packet of candied ginger and the box of motion sickness medication in his coat pocket. “Thank you for these.”

“If it's this rough tonight, maybe we should stay,” John said as they made their way down the steps to their car.

“I have the medicine now and I would rather make the crossing back in a storm twice as bad than stay somewhere that doesn't have mobile signal.”

“However did you survive two years alone going around the world?” John asked, not expecting an answer.

“By not going to backwater places with no mobile signal.”

“I find it hard to believe you had mobile coverage everywhere you went.”

“John, the jungles of Mexico and the planes of Africa all have mobile reception. The only time I didn't have reception it was due to government interference.”

“Ours or theirs?” 

“Does it matter?" Sherlock pushed the button to unlock the car's doors. "Anyway, I usually figured out how to get what I needed.”

With a snort, John opened the passenger side door and slid in. “I don't doubt it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though, in all honesty, John wasn't wholly opposed being left at the Bowmore to sample whisky, except that he was fairly certain Sherlock might forget about him altogether and leave John behind. Not just at the distillery, but on Islay itself, so John needed to stay within eyesight of Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the wonderful SoundingSea for the beta. All mistakes (and time delays) are my fault.
> 
> Not E yet, next chapter. Which, honestly, won't be out until about a week or two after Comic Con.

The tourist book John grabbed from the ferry showed clearly how to get to the Bowmore Distillery – and the nearly dozen other distilleries open to the public – which was a good thing, as between him and Sherlock, they didn't have a mobile that would reliably stay connected to a data network.

Either due to still not feeling one hundred percent well or perhaps as a concession to the narrow roads combined with the ever-worsening weather, Sherlock drove at a relatively calm ten miles over the speed limit. 

There was really only one road to get to there and the distillery's distinctive chimneys – not to mention 'Bowmore' written in large gold letters on the side of one of the white buildings – let them know when they'd arrived at their destination. 

John was glad to see Sherlock's colour had just about returned to normal. Or, rather, he was glad to watch as the greyish tinge faded until Sherlock was his usual shade of pale. The urge to run his fingers along Sherlock's cheeks, over his forehead – just to check, to make sure he really was doing better, test his temperature, take his pulse – was an urge John needed to fight back with a startling amount of effort, as he knew that Sherlock would not welcome the contact of any medical professional checking his status.

Even that of his best friend who also just happened to be a doctor. 

Still, maybe if it were only the lightest graze of his fingers over Sherlock's wrist, to see if his temperature and pulse were back to normal. 

And, really, those were all just poor excuses. John knew that, which was why he didn't reach out and touch Sherlock.

The car park was empty but for a sad grey SmartCar with a dented passenger side door and bonnet.

“Think this fantastic weather is keeping the tourists away?” John remarked wryly as they slammed their doors and jogged into the visitors centre entrance through wind sharp enough to make the pelting rain sting John's face. 

“Mr. Holmes,” said a middle aged woman in a thick woolen jumper and navy trousers who walked over to them as they shut the door, and shut out the storm, behind them. “Doctor Watson,” she said turning to John. “I'm Kelsi MacKeachan.” 

They shook hands, then she ushered them up some stairs, through a gift shop with a bloke chatting to the young woman behind the checkout, then opened a door marked 'Staff Only'.

“Avid reader of John's blog,” Sherlock stated as they settled into a small yet tastefully decorated office. The desk, a glossy chestnut, looked old, well used, but not shabby at all. As did the matching bookshelves.

“I'll have some tea brought in, shall I?” asked Kelsi. Though it was more of a rhetorical question as she called out to someone down the hall asking for a pot and three cups. 

“Ta,” John said, adding a smile to his thanks.

“The reason I called you here—”

“And paid a fairly substantial amount of money.” Sherlock interjected. “The use of a private aeroplane alone, which needed to be diverted, cost your company thousands of pounds.” 

“Yes, the reason I did that was because I suspect that whomever stole the bottle wasn't some criminal mastermind—”

“Clearly not,” Sherlock muttered dismissively.

“But,” Kelsi continued gamely, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken, “a misguided person who, under normal circumstances, wouldn't have stolen a penny.”

“If you know who took the bottle, why make us come all the way here?” John asked when Sherlock stood up as if to leave.

“Because, I don't know exactly who took it and I don't want to be the one to say for certain.” 

“Because,” Sherlock said, “your holding company would prefer not to have the press alerted to the fact that one of your incredibly expensive and rare bottles has been stolen right from its place of pride in your tasting room.” 

Reaching out, Sherlock suddenly opened the door startling both John and Kelsi and the young woman from out front who stood on the other side holding a tray with a sturdy blue teapot and three matching mugs.

“Please just set it down on my desk,” Kelsi directed. No one spoke at the young woman did as directed, then left the room. 

Kelsi poured and handed John a cup of tea as Sherlock paced around the office, eyes roving everywhere. 

As far as John could tell, most of the photos were taken from all over the distillery with various famous people, and those less posh with real smiles who John assumed were friends or family. There were also larger photos, professionally framed and matted, one of a desolate moor and one of a stunning sunset overlooking the water that hung on the wall by the door. Some trinkets were scattered around, not so much as to be cluttered, but enough to give the idea of a woman with varied tastes and interests: a small bronze horse, mane and tail flowing in an unfelt wind; a fist-sized gargoyle that looked as if it could have come from Notre Dame; a jade dragon, mouth opened mid roar; a miniature sushi plate no bigger than a 10p piece; a distinctive blue callbox. 

There were also several bottles of Bowmore in glass cases on a low shelf behind her desk. 

John tried to speculate where the clues were, that everyone else missed hidden in plain sight that none but Sherlock easily saw, which would reveal Kelsi MacKeachan's private secrets. 

Sherlock whirled around to face Kelsi again, eyes intense and piercing. “A missing bottle, if returned, would lead to awkward questions in the future about the integrity of the remaining bottles. If it was widely known that someone had so easily absconded with one, what's to say that the others haven't been tampered with?”

“Yes,” Kelsi agreed simply.

John gave the woman credit; most people caught under Sherlock's intense scrutiny and spot-on deductions usually stammered or made excuses; she just calmly stared back at Sherlock.

Unsure of how long the staring contest would go on – Sherlock was nothing if not a stubborn bastard – John shifted his gaze between them.

“It would be best,” John said, deciding that it was entirely possible that neither of them were going to speak if he didn't move things along, “if you could give us what details you can.”

“It's obviously that it is someone local who has stolen the bottle,” Sherlock said in his most bored tone. “Someone who has access to the distillery, whom people are used to seeing about.” 

“Perhaps," Kelsi conceded, "but I have no evidence at all—”

“Of course not. You wouldn't know where to look,” Sherlock said dismissively. 

“And," she continued firmly, "I don't want to falsely accuse someone and ruin their lives.”

John imagined that there must be someone in Kelsi's life that required her to talk over them – a teenager seemed the most likely, but really, pretty much any pushy relative would do, as most people didn't put up with someone like Sherlock in their lives voluntarily – as she was able to keep going in the face of Sherlock's rude and continuous interruptions.

“Show me the room where the whisky is kept,” Sherlock demanded.

No matter how tempted, John refrained from pointing out that as they were at a whisky distillery, there were probably many rooms where whisky was kept. However, from the glare Sherlock shot him, John knew that once again Sherlock had deduced his thoughts. 

For the next hour or so, they traipsed over the Bowmore Distillery – including getting a very enlightening tour of the whole operation – with Sherlock flitting off to storage rooms and striding through the building that housed the massive wooden washback barrels, to the giant copper stills. There, Sherlock spent a good ten minutes pestering the technicians monitoring the quality control, and avariciously studying the machines used to determine the alcohol content of each batch of whisky. (John would not be surprised if one day he came home to an illegal still set up on the kitchen table.)

John was teased by the scent of whisky, but never actually got to taste any – despite several offers to sample along the way, Sherlock always cut in with questions or turned with a flow of his billowing coat to stride away. And, if John didn't want to get left behind, that meant he would need to jog to keep up. Though, in all honesty, John wasn't wholly opposed being left at the Bowmore to sample whisky, except that he was fairly certain Sherlock might forget about him altogether and leave John behind. Not just at the distillery, but on Islay itself, so John needed to stay within eyesight of Sherlock.

They made their way back outside and into the now raging storm, where Sherlock looked about without ever saying a word, before taking off at a run to the car. John only just barely managed to open the front passenger's door, stopping Sherlock from driving off.

Sherlock didn't even wait for him to shut his door before reversing out of his spot and heading out of the car park.

“Where the fuck are we going?” John demanded, bracing his feet in a vain attempt to stop himself from being hurled against the passenger door as he did up his seatbelt.

“We need to get to the opposite side of the bay before our culprit does something rash with a bottle of 1957 Bowmore.”

“What?”

“The person who stole the bottle knows someone is here investigating and has gone back to their home to hide the evidence, most probably destroy it, before they get caught.”

“If they went to all the trouble to steal the bottle, why the hell would they destroy it?”

“So that he – and I am positive the thief is a man – doesn't get caught making his situation, which is incredibly bad, even worse.”

“Why not just hide it somewhere until the fuss has subsided, then quietly make a hundred grand?”

“How is it, John, that after all this time you are surprised when people do stupid things?”

“If he went to that trouble to steal something so valuable there must be an explanation, so it stands to reason that he would hold onto it until he could sell it and pay for whatever it was he stole it for.”

Somewhere, a figment of Mrs. Wilshire, John's year three teacher, was gnashing her teeth at that poorly constructed sentence, but given the fact that he could scarcely speak at all as Sherlock barreled down the A874, John hoped that Mrs. Wilshire would understand. 

“Because the thief is opportunistic and desperate rather than a dedicated criminal with a plan,” Sherlock said slowly, as if speaking to someone incredibly stupid. 

Rather than reply, John clenched his teeth and reiterated to himself that thumping the driver who was driving in a rather reckless manner would lead to something unfortunate. 

No matter how much the driver might be in need of a thumping. 

John wasn't sure how long the trip was supposed to take, but eleven minutes and maybe seven years off his life later Sherlock fishtailed the car into a drive filled with deep potholes, swerved around a dark blue lorry, then, with a bone-jarring thump, which John hoped didn't do damage to the hired car – they came to a stop inches behind a grey SmartCar.

One which, John was sure, would have a dented passenger side and bonnet.

“You. Are. Never. Ever. Driving. Again.” John said, once he was able to unclench his jaw. “You're a bloody menace.”

“My driving record is perfect,” Sherlock told him haughtily, taking the keys out of the ignition. 

“How many times has Mycroft had to fix it for you?”

“Never,” Sherlock said piously. 

“How many times have you hacked in and fixed it yourself?” John asked, grinning at the quick irritated look that Sherlock shot him.

“Oh, good, someone's knows we're here,” Sherlock said, completely ignoring John's question. With a deft movement, Sherlock unfastening his seatbelt and leapt from the car.

“Git!” John called after Sherlock, but there was more affection than censure in his tone. 

A gust of wind nearly knocked John flat when he got out of the car and he wondered how many gusts had been responsible for Sherlock's swerving and how many swerves had just been Sherlock being an enormous dick. 

“Fucking knock!” John called, jogging to catch up to Sherlock who had tried the handle and, finding the door open, entered the house. Hopeless. Fucking hopeless to try and get Sherlock to even make an attempt at manners.

Still, not wanting anything bad to happen to him, John forewent knocking too and followed Sherlock into the house. 

“Well, this is a bit of a let down,” Sherlock was saying from a room off the left of the entrance. 

Skidding to an abrupt halt next to Sherlock, John took in the scene: a sitting room that had obviously seen better days, but someone had made a valiant effort to maintain it. Beside the settee that was at least a century old (or a very good if slightly ratty copy), the dark coffee table might also have been an antique, but with so many nicks and water stains from various glasses, it was next to worthless; the wallpaper (someone had very similar tastes to Mrs. Hudson there) was bare in places and peeling in the top right corner of the room.

In a large green velvet chair – bald patches rubbed along the arms – sat a ginger-haired bloke in his late twenties, shoulders slumped, cradling his head in his hands. 

“I don't see the bottle,” John said in a hushed tone.

“Oh, it's not here, is it, Neil?” From the tone, it was evident that Sherlock was making more of a statement than asking a question. 

“How do you know my name?” asked the young man who was apparently named Neil.

“I read it on your name tag when you were chatting up the cashier in the gift store in the Bowmore Distillery.”

“I wasn't chatting her up!” Neil exclaimed. “She's my sister!”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, eyeing Neil with disbelief. 

“You got it wrong?” John asked, simultaneously. Flummoxed that Sherlock had misread something so basic. 

“Well, not by blood,” said Neil. “We took her in when her mum died of cancer nearly fifteen years ago, so as good as.” Neil dropped his head back into his hands.

“That explains why you have no visible genetic markers in common,” Sherlock said in a way that was meant to make it clear that his mistake was Neil's fault. 

Affection swelled in John as he remembered another mistake involving a sister and the start of a mad adventure that had yet to really stop. 

“Where's the bottle?” John asked, eyes scanning the sitting room. Because, unless it was hidden inside the chair or settee, it wasn't here. 

“It's not in the house, John,” Sherlock said with disdain, causing Neil to jerk his head up, dismay clearly written on his face. “I said he was an idiot, not a complete moron.” 

The windows rattled ominously as a gust of wind shook them, making the rain sound more as if it were pieces of gravel hitting the glass rather than drops of water. John briefly entertained the thought that Sherlock now controlled the elements just to make his proclamations more dramatic. 

“Well,” John said, trying to suppress a grin at his musings, “how about you tell us where it is, so that we can get this settled and be home in time for tea?”

“I've ruined everything,” Neil mumbled, his head once again dropping into his hands.

“Yes, you rather have, but that's not my problem,” said Sherlock. “What is my problem is returning the bottle of 1957 Bowmore that you stole to the distillery and heading back to London. With John driving we should be home by Guy Fawkes.”

“Oi! Just because I maintain a safe speed doesn't mean I drive like a pensioner.” 

“John,” Sherlock managed to imbue his name with dripping disdain, “a tractor passed us the last time you were at the wheel.”

“That was hardly my fault! Not only was there something wrong with the motor, but the floor mat had flipped up under the accelerator.”

“And, yet, the fact of the matter is, a tractor passed us.”

“I'm not getting back in that car with you driving!” John collared Neil as he tried to sneak past them. “Really, mate,” John said to Neil, while keeping his eyes locked with a smirking Sherlock, “you thought you could walk right fucking between us and I wouldn't notice?”

“You two seemed to be having a bit of a domestic and I thought it was best to give you your privacy.”

“Where did you hide the bottle, Neil?” John asked again.

“Oh, the island.”

“While I admit Islay is small as islands go, we're not going to search all of it in a storm,” Sherlock informed Neil eyes hard. “John becomes tetchy when he gets wet and you don't want to see him in a mood.”

“I'm not the one with moods,” John objected.

“Of course you aren't, John.” Sherlock smiled at him indulgently. 

“Says the man with more moods than a schoolroom full of kids before their GCSEs.”

“I don't have moods,” Sherlock yelped, sounding truly affronted.

“Yes, you do. We are both moody bastards,” John offered. The smile that curled Sherlock's lips was a real one that tightened John's chest and warmed his body, and John was incapable of stopping the answering smile that lit up his own face. Again, Neil tried to edge away. “I'm holding onto you, mate,” John said in a conversational tone to Neil, not even bothering to look at the young culprit. “How do you possibly think you're going to get away?”

“I'm done with this nonsense.” Turning to Neil, Sherlock studied him for a very long minute. “Oh! Of course. Stupid. Come, John.”

“What?” 

“Bring Neil. We'll need his boat.”

“Right,” John said, resigned to the fact that Sherlock wasn't going to tell him where they were going or what they were doing or why they needed Neil.

What John did know was that he needed to get to the car before Sherlock did. 

Dragging a squawking Neil behind him, John dashed for the front door. And only by using Neil as a human bowling bowl was John able to claim the driver's seat.

“Oh, stop talking and get in the back,” Sherlock ordered, opening the rear driver's side door and all but stuffing Neil inside the car.

“Where to?” John asked once Sherlock was in the car.

“Back towards Bowmore. The marina, I think.”

“How?” asked Neil softly from the back, as John pulled onto the road. It was only then – not in fear for life and limb – that he noticed the sign out front that the house was actually a B&B. Though currently closed for the season.

“Obvious, really.” Sherlock said, leaning across the gear shift, obscuring John's view.

“Get back to your side!”

“John, you're not even doing the speed limit.”

“I just pulled out onto the bloody road! It takes most people more than point six seconds to hit sixty miles. No matter what the car companies claim.”

“You never hit sixty miles,” Sherlock muttered, but he did edge back to his side of the car. 

“What was obvious?” Neil asked. “Apart from the two of you.” He added in a murmur John wasn't sure they were supposed to hear or not. From the way Sherlock stiffened, John gathered he'd heard as well.

“Once I saw the float on your key chain. I knew about the boat,” Sherlock informed him in an imperious tone. 

“What key chain?” John didn't remember seeing Neil have one in the house, but maybe Sherlock saw it back at the distillery and some clue while they were in the house confirmed for Sherlock that they needed to head to the marina. 

A marina John wasn't even aware existed. Though it stood to reason, as Bowmore was a decent sized town – as small island towns went – right on the water. Of course there would be a marina.

“The key chain in his coat pocket,” Sherlock said, as if obvious.

“My pockets are zipped shut!” Neil exclaimed. In the rearview mirror, John saw Neil frantically patting his pockets. 

“Yes, but there is a very distinctive outline of the typical flotation device favoured by most people who frequent areas where they have the potential of their keys sinking to the bottom of a body of water.” 

“But my pockets are zipped shut,” repeated Neil.

“John, pull over!” yelled Sherlock, hands reaching over to take the wheel. 

Without hesitation, John swerved to the side of the road. There wasn't really any place to safely stop, but it wasn't as if there was a lot of traffic either. 

“What's wrong?” John demanded, heart pounding straining his eyes to see through the rain to see the impending catastrophe that must be coming their way. 

“Nothing, I just wish for Neil to give me his keys.”

A very familiar feeling came over John: that of wanting to clobber Sherlock.

“Do you think, just maybe, that yelling at me to pull over and trying to grab the wheel as if we were in imminent danger might not have been the best way to go about this?”

Ignoring him, Sherlock turned in his seat to face Neil.

“Keys. Now.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Neil said defiantly. 

“They're in the right pocket of your frankly hideous coat.” Sherlock glanced at John. “Do you people buy them from a specific shop that sells ugly, ill-fitting clothing?”

Taking a deep breath, John pulled back out onto the road. Maybe if he used all his consideration on driving –this was the first time he had ever driven in such awful weather, so he really did need to pay attention – then maybe he wouldn't have to do those calming exercises Ella had forced him to learn to keep his temper. 

“They're not!”

“They are,” Sherlock insisted. “Furthermore, John is annoyed, and when John is annoyed he likes to hit things.”

“Why is he annoyed with me?” Neil asked, voice rising to a near squeak, meeting John's eyes briefly in the rearview mirror.

“I never said he was annoyed with you, just that he was annoyed.”

“Just give him the bloody keys,” John told Neil, jaw clenched. 

From behind him, John heard the sound of a zipper being pulled and the jangle of keys.

“Here!” Neil tossed the keys between the front seats.

Sherlock dove for them, in the process knocking them down. With a jangle they landed on the floor by John's feet.

Before John could say anything, he had a lap full of Consulting Detective with Sherlock's head resting dangerously close to John's crotch. 

“Oi! Trying to fucking drive here, Sherlock!”

It was only his worry about swerving across the road and into the ocean that prevented his mind from recalling in vivid detail all manner of fantasies that John really shouldn't. Not with Sherlock still mostly in his lap. 

“I can't see them.” Sherlock's voice was muffled from where his face was pressed into John's right thigh. John could feel the warm puff of his words on each exhale and his cock twitched in interest. “Spread your legs a bit.”

“They're not going anywhere!” John yelped as Sherlock turned his head this way and that trying to find the keys. 

Near disaster or not, if Sherlock stayed where he was, there would be no hiding how much John liked him there. And, while John wasn't at all opposed to trying, well, frankly, just about anything with Sherlock – there was no denying (at least in the privacy of his own head) that Sherlock was a fit bloke and that more than once John had dreamt about what he and Sherlock would do together should the situation of their nakedness and desire coincide – a moving car with a suspect in the back was not ideal. 

“But—” 

“No,” John said and firmly wove his fingers into Sherlock's hair – Christ almighty, what did the poncy bastard use to make his hair so fucking silky? – and gently tugged. 

For a brief moment Sherlock resisted. 

No, not resisted, John realized; froze there in place with his mouth centimeters from John's cock, then with a wriggle – shudder? that was most certainly a shudder – gave in to John's insistent pulling and retreated from John's crotch. 

“You didn't have to manhandle me,” Sherlock said in a huffy tone, voice slightly breathy.

“Couldn't drive with you there.” Could barely breathe with him there.

In a silent apology, John gently massaged Sherlock's scalp where he'd tugged the dark curls. 

Again, Sherlock seemed to freeze and when John glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, he could see colour staining Sherlock's cheeks. John cursed both the arsehole thief in the back of the car and the weather conditions that meant most of his consideration needed to stay focused on the skinny road, rather than doing what John desperately longed to: pulling the car over and looking Sherlock in the eyes while he once again tugged the ridiculously soft curls followed by a soothing caress. 

Because, unless John was very much mistaken – and fuck knew he had been so many times in the past when it came to Sherlock – he was fairly certain that the shudders hadn't been ones of pain or disgust. 

“Best leave the keys where they are until we park. It's not as if they're going anywhere.”

Sherlock grumbled something John was fairly sure about how long it would take them to get where they were going, but a gust of wind pushed the car dangerously close to the edge of the road and John gripped the steering wheel with both hands, foregoing returning the insult.

“Your driving skills leave much to be desired,” Sherlock muttered, eyes fixed forward.

“Not all of us have been driving since before we were legally allowed to do so,” John replied, needing to get them back to some form of normal. Well, normal for them. 

“The driving age is a legal construct that does not take into consideration that some people are far more equipped to handle a motor vehicle than others.” Sherlock turned his head and from the corner of his eye, John could see the grin. “No matter their age.”

“Sherlock, what you do is not even close to legal driving.” John slowed as a lorry that seemed to take up both its and their lane lumbered towards them. 

“Why are you slowing down?”

“Because the lorry will smash into us if I don't pull as far over as I can.”

“He has plenty of room. By slowing down you're just letting him take up more than his fair share of the road.”

“As the lorry is about a hundred times bigger than this car, the driver can take up whatever part of the road he needs to and I'm going to be getting the hell out of its way.”

“You know, for a soldier, you're not very good at standing your ground.”

“As a soldier, I know about winning and losing battles,” John said mildly. 

“Debatable,” Sherlock muttered as the lorry trundled by, causing the car to shudder and shake, briefly coating the windscreen in more water than the wipers could handle. 

“You were wrong,” John said, as he started to accelerate.

“Doubtful,” Sherlock answered absently.

“No, you were,” John insisted. 

“About what?”

“The lorry driver was a woman.”

“I never said it was a man.”

“You said 'he'.”

“That was before I saw it was a woman.”

“You were wrong about my sister,” piped up Neil from the back of the car.

“Yes, you were wrong about his sister.”

“That was hardly my fault,” Sherlock huffed. “I explained why that happened.”

“Still, that's twice today you've been wrong,” John put in, grinning. 

“Statistically speaking, the driver of a lorry is more likely to be a man. I was using the law of averages. A perfectly sound method until all the facts are in place.”

“So,” John asked, unable to help the smile that plastered itself all over his face, “you were theorizing before the facts?” 

“Oh, do shut up!” But the words were far from sharp and John knew that Sherlock was amused more than anything else. 

They drove the rest of the way in silence until they crested the top of the bay and started back down to Bowmore.

“Why did you steal the bottle?” John asked. He'd been trying to puzzle it out, but couldn't come to any solid conclusions. The house, while a bit shabby, was by no means dilapidated and for all the weather was currently crap, Islay was becoming quite the destination vacation for whisky connoisseurs. To the point that, according to the little guide book John had from the ferry, most accommodations were usually booked well in advance all summer long. 

More, Neil hardly seemed the master criminal type. Hell, he hardly seemed the bumbling criminal type.

“He needs the money,” Sherlock said, fiddling with his phone.

“Yeah, I got that part,” John said, slightly exasperated. “What I don't get is what he needs it for.”

Beside him, John could see Sherlock's hands still. 

“Oh!” Sherlock gasped. “Of course! The sister. Always, the sister.”

“If that was meant to be an explanation, you failed miserably,” John told him wryly. 

“Don't you see?” Sherlock asked, twisting in his seat to look at Neil. “Your sister is much younger than you, more than ten years. She seemed bright enough. At least, brighter than you.”

“How the fuck could you have gauged her intelligence from the five seconds you saw her?” John asked, preparing himself to be amazed. It never got old, this: seeing Sherlock being Sherlock. 

“There were two books on the counter: a copy of Moore and Dalley's Clinically Oriented Anatomy, two publications out of date, Anatomy Coloring Book, the spine well cracked, and an advanced German exercise book,” Sherlock listed off. “She's teaching herself German in hopes of getting a better job, perhaps as a tour guide, maybe in a hotel as a concierge. She already knows Spanish, Italian, and French. At least, well enough to answer basic questions anyone has to ask at the store. Probably picked them up quickly along with Latin. Wants to be a doctor, has since she was a child, should be in school now, except there's no money to send her there. The tuition changes the Tories implemented mean that school has now become impossible for her to afford.” Sherlock paused. “You wanted to sell the B&B, but she wouldn't let you. Said that she wouldn't go to school even if you did. It's been in your family for three, no, four generations.”

“Four,” Neil confirmed, the awe in his voice something that John recognized from countless other people, countless other cases. “And, yeah, she said even if I sold the B&B, she wouldn't take the money. It does alright enough, but not enough to afford housing in Glasgow and food and books and clothing. And, Christ, schooling is expensive, even with the reduced rate she would get because we live somewhere that doesn't have the option of anything past secondary school. And she's going to be a doctor, so that's years longer.”

John remembered his schooling, when tuition had mostly been covered and all he needed to worry about was books, housing and food. Even living in London – which by far had been the most expensive of his options, but he couldn't have imagined living anywhere else – he'd worked like mad just to be able to pay his portion of rent in a flat he shared with five other blokes. Food had been less of a problem as he'd worked at a cafe and at the end of day, they were allowed to eat whatever didn't sell. 

“You didn't plan on stealing the bottle, did you, Neil?” John asked. He knew all about sisters and them going their own way. 

“I've never stolen anything in my life.”

Though he didn't say a word, even John could feel the incredulity emanating from Sherlock as he turned around to study Neil. “Never?”

“Nothing important! Apples from the neighbour's tree. Maybe a bottle or two of spirits from a mate's parents once when we drank ourselves sick. But nothing important. Nothing like this.”

“It was blatantly obvious from the first that you were a novice,” Sherlock said, facing front again.

“Am I going to go to jail?” Neil asked softly from the back. 

No one spoke. John didn't know what to say; it wasn't his call if Neil would end up in prison or not. It wasn't as if the crime was a malicious one, but the value of the bottle meant that it would be taken very seriously. Extenuating circumstances or not, theft was theft and the law took a dim view no matter the motivations.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Neil seemed to have folded in on himself and looked far younger than his age, which John guessed to be around thirty.

The silence was only broken by Sherlock directing John to the small marina. 

Even in the shelter of the bay, the waves were worryingly high and John hoped that whatever boat they were going in would handle them without capsizing. 

When they stepped out of the car, rain whipped into John's face like needles. Grumbling, John stooped and fished up the keys that had somehow worked their way under the mat.

“Sherlock,” John called uneasily, “I think it might be best if we waited to head out to whatever island we're going to.”

“We're not going to an island,” Sherlock said, standing tall as if impervious to the awful weather. 

“I thought—” 

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock cut in, “but you're wrong.”

“Not the only one,” John muttered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear and shoot a glare at John.

“Think,” said Sherlock. “It's not as if the storm magically started at a gale force. It was bad enough at six this morning to cancel our landing here. The discovery of the theft was several hours after closing last night – meaning the bottle was there throughout the day – that meant it was stolen after the storm had already started to come in.”

This time when Neil started to push by them, John let him, as he was heading towards the boats bobbing wildly in their moorings. 

“It's on the boat,” Neil said, glaring halfheartedly at Sherlock over his shoulder. “The waves were too high last night. It's always a bit iffy going to the island in the dark, but the swells were already at five to eight feet and I only have a little RIB. It wasn't worth the risk.”

Compensating for the pitch and roll of the dock, John and Sherlock followed Neil to a dull grey inflatable boat with a hard bottom. It looked to seat six at most. 

“You take guests out in the summer to look for whales,” Sherlock said, looking a little pale.

“Yeah, it's not a bad side business. Pack a picnic lunch and charge a hundred quid a head. Have to refund half if we don't see any. Keys?”

Getting a nod from Sherlock, John handed them over.

Nimbly, Neil jumped into the boat and unlocked a footlocker at the back. He rummaged around for a second, pulling out seat cushions and lifevests, before stilling and staring blankly into shadowy depth of the box. 

For one heartstopping moment, John thought that maybe the bottle had broken in the rough weather, but then Neil pulled it out. The bottle was ridiculously pretentious, John thought, but instantly recognizable now that he knew what he was looking for.

Neil held it out to them. John expected Sherlock to snatch it up, but he didn't. It took John a moment to figure out why, and when he did, John took over. Even just on the jetty, Sherlock was suffering from motion sickness. 

The trip back to the mainland would be wretched. 

Taking the bottle from Neil, John hustled everyone back up to solid ground. 

“What happens now?” Neil asked when Sherlock just stood staring out at the water. 

Straightening, Sherlock studied Neil. “Go home,” Sherlock finally said. 

“What?” John and Neil asked simultaneously. 

“Go home,” Sherlock said. “John and I will deal with the rest.”

Shocked, Neil stood there, rain soaking him, staring at Sherlock uncomprehendingly. 

“Sherlock?” John asked.

“We have the bottle. We'll return it to the distillery without anyone except the three of us knowing who took it. All Kelsi and her superiors want is for it to be returned and there to be no publicity. Neil is just an idiot who loves his sister beyond the point of his common sense. Which wasn't that great to begin with.”

With a grin, John turned to Neil. “Go home,” John told him.

“Really?” Neil asked, hope blooming on his face. “Really?”

“I hate repetition,” Sherlock muttered and brushed by John to stock off to the car. 

“Umm, how am I supposed to get home?” Neil asked.

“Ring a mate. Take the bus. Walk?” John offered, jogging to catch up to Sherlock. Shoving his left hand in his pocket, John discovered the keys to the car missing. “Fuck!”

Running, John got to the car just as Sherlock slid into the driver's seat. 

“Bastard!” John exclaimed, yanking the passenger's side door open. “Just to the distillery,” John told him. 

“Of course,” Sherlock said in a way that John knew meant they would have another discussion about who was going to drive for the rest of the day. A discussion in raised voices.

“Why did you let him go?” John asked as Sherlock started the car.

“Because he won't ever steal so much as an apple again. His intentions weren't to harm, but to help.” Sending a sneer in the general direction of Neil and his boat, Sherlock turned on the car. “He just went about helping in an asinine way.”

Without another word, Sherlock floored the accelerator and fishtailed out of the car park and headed three blocks to Bowmore. 

# # #

In the end, Sherlock had been correct; Kelsi really didn't want to know who'd taken the bottle, nor did her superiors. The distillery was empty of visitors, so the bottle was put back in its secured case – the stand-in removed – as soon as they handed over the missing bottle. 

“What did you have in the special case today?” John asked as they made their way to the front door, cradling a bottle of special reserve that Kelsi had given them as a personal thank you for solving the case so quickly and quietly. 

“One of the bottles that is normally stored in our climate-controlled safe,” she told him. 

“Well, I can't say it's been a pleasure, but the fee will help keep John from worrying about buying tea and milk for a while,” Sherlock said en lieu of a farewell.

“Sherlock,” John admonished, though without heat. “We best be heading back, if we want to make the three-thirty ferry.”

“You haven't heard?” Kelsi asked, looking a bit chagrined. 

“Heard what?” Sherlock asked very slowly.

“The ferries have been canceled,” Kelsi told them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the Port Askaig Hotel didn't have, however, was rooms for both of them. Or even (and, truthfully the more probable cause for John's drinking) separate beds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my ever wonderfully amazing soundngsea for the betas. And so many thank-yous to Odamaki for the beta and Brit Pick. 
> 
> Again, thank you both so much.
> 
> All remaining mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> Soooo, ummm. Yeah. I added another chapter. More, I split the last chapter for two reasons: one, when I hit nearly 5,500 words and no nekkidness to be had, it seemed like a natural chapter break, and two, 5,500 is a lot of words for my betas. They (sadness for me) are not at my beck and call, so I decided to split the last chapter in half to get it out sooner. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this part.
> 
> Last part/new chapter is in polishing stages and will be sent off to my beta Saturday night or Sunday.

It could be worse, John mused: they might not have had a place to stay at all. 

At least the Port Askaig Hotel had a fairly decent kitchen and – far more importantly if he was going to have to listen to Sherlock whinge all night about ferries and stupidity of people for living on islands in the middle of the ocean – a well stocked bar featuring an amazing selection of local whiskies. 

Many of which John hoped to sample. 

What the Port Askaig Hotel didn't have, however, was rooms for both of them. Or even (and, truthfully the more probable cause for John's drinking) separate beds.

The type of room they were in usually featured a queen or king-sized bed and a single; the type of room for young families. 

The single bed that was normally in their room had been appropriated for the lads from the ferry crew who were sleeping four or five to a room. Every room was full up due to the cancellation of the ferry. The only other hotel that was open this time of year was full for a hen party – two days into a five day stay, and already notorious for their behaviour – and two couples who were desperate to find other accommodations. Several of the B&B owners had been persuaded into opening up to give the lorry drivers who were supposed to be returning to the mainland places to stay.

Luckily, the shops had still been open when Kelsi had informed them about the cancellation of the ferries – and the arrangements she'd made for them to stay on Islay – so they'd been able to get a couple of toothbrushes – deemed inferior by Sherlock due to their non-electricness –, toothpaste – which Sherlock proclaimed loudly in the middle of the aisle tasted dreadful and he wasn't going to put that chemical sludge in his mouth (though considering the chemical compounds that Sherlock regularly inhaled, ingested, and generally was exposed to, John figured it was just Sherlock being difficult) – and deodorant – which Sherlock denounced as being carcinogenic. John happily pointed out that Sherlock still snuck cigarettes (which shut him up as Sherlock didn't think John knew about the occasional fag Sherlock shared with Mycroft), and that led to blessed silence as John paid for their purchases. 

Unfortunately, they weren't able to get any new clothing. If nothing else, John would have liked fresh pair of pants, vest, and socks. However, long years in the Army and making do meant he wasn't too fussed about putting on today's clothes tomorrow. 

“You going to stare at it all night or drink it?” John asked Sherlock. 

Taking a sip of the very peaty, but lovely Ardbeg that the innkeeper had recommended after inquiring to John's whisky preferences, John made a mental note of the name and promised that buying a bottle would be a treat to himself if he managed to not clobber (or fuck) Sherlock tonight. 

“I was just thinking that I rarely consume alcohol and don't want to end up with the same horrific hangover I experienced the night after your stag do.”

“It's one drink, Sherlock. It's not going to get you hammered.” John shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Vague and unattached memories came to him of that night: lying on the stairs giggling; falling asleep with his arm around Sherlock; Sherlock's arse in the air, in a shoulders down pose inspiring a whole new wave of fantasies that had stuck with John nearly a year later; watching Sherlock sleep, face lax and beautiful; wondering exactly what he was doing in a police cell – not for the first time, not even the fifth – and feeling more fond affection than righteous irritation for Sherlock. Smeared memories of a half-dozen different bars, adding a little bit extra to his drinks in order to hopefully lessen the feeling of doom. (Whether that feeling was caused by his pending nuptials or the prospect of a pub crawl with Sherlock wasn't something John had ever been able to clearly define.) Never before had John revealed either his mixed feelings nor the fact of the added alcohol. “I have something to confess about that night.”

Across from him, Sherlock sat straight up and studied John intently.

“Proceed.”

“Look, it was an accident. Well, not really, I was pissed, as were you, but that was the sort of the point. But being pissed isn't really an reason, and I'd be right furious if someone used it on me. Also, it was sort of not an accident.” Hearing the words tumbling out of his mouth, John paused, left fist clenching around his drink. Taking a breath he tried to gather his thoughts. “I got confused and wasn't really paying attention to what I was doing. Hell, even if I had been paying attention, it's not like I really knew what I was doing by that point.” John again stopped rambling and tried to account for his words and if they'd made any sense at all. 

“I didn't mind either,” Sherlock told him, eyes boring into John's; speaking words in a language where John only caught faint echoes of their meanings. 

“It's just that I wanted to say sorry. I know that you had a plan for how much we were supposed to be drinking – created an app and everything – but I just wanted to get plastered that night. So, I started doing shots at the second place once your back was turned. I even poured some into my graduated cylinder.” Unable to look at Sherlock any more, John dropped his eyes; his behaviour was inexcusable and, while he didn't want to excuse it, he did want Sherlock to know and hopefully forgive him. John could feel the weight of Sherlock's eyes on him.

“John?” Sherlock asked, so softly as to be barely audible over the buzz of the conversations going going around them.

Licking his dry lips, John lifted his glass to his mouth, hoping to get his confession out in a coherent enough manner to never again have to speak of that night (well, this specific aspect of it, because the night itself was enjoyable. Even the part where they ended up as guests of New Scotland Yard.) For this last part, John felt that he needed to be looking directly at Sherlock so that Sherlock would know how sorry John was. “I think. No, I know, that I mixed up which cylinder was mine and which one was yours. The first time or two was an accident, but after that, I was just getting us pissed as fast as possible.”

Sherlock's gaze dropped down to his glass, an unnatural stillness settling in on him; then in a flurry of movements, he raised his glass to his lips and downed the entire contents, more than half of the fairly hefty pour.

A split second later, he gave a dramatic shudder. “That was horrible!”

“Well, you're supposed to sip it!” John blurted out, both horrified by the waste of such terrific whisky and sympathetic as consuming that much whisky so quickly had to burn. "That was nearly thirty pounds you swallowed in one go!”

“I've swallowed far more precious things in just one go. They, however, were far more pleasurable.” 

It took several moments for the meaning of Sherlock's words to penetrate John's mind. When they did, a myriad of half-formed images of Sherlock swallowing John's cock causing John to want to drag Sherlock across the table – or maybe shove him under it – and see if the reality lived up to the promise he could see lurking in Sherlock's knowing expression. 

“I find this Ardbeg very pleasurable,” John said. So saying, John took a long, slow swallow of his whisky, his tongue licking his lips to get the last bit, before setting his glass down. 

“How can anyone enjoy that?”

“It's really very nice. If. You. Sip. It.” So saying, John took another long, slow sip of his whisky, savouring the mild burn, the lovely peaty flavour, the faint smoky aftertaste. John thought that Sherlock would be a smoky, elemental flavour that he would want to take his time with as well. 

“I should try again,” Sherlock said, looking determinedly at the crowded bar. If fourteen people could be considered a crowd. “Take my time with this one. And, if you're wrong, I'll just hold my nose and swallow it down like medicine. Or get the proprietors to refund our money for serving us inferior goods.”

“Maybe you should just get some Johnny Walker or Crown Royal if you're just going to waste such good alcohol.”

Sherlock shot him a disgusted look and pushed his chair back and headed to the bar. 

Slowly taking a drink of his own whisky, John watched Sherlock as he made a beeline for the bartender and wondered if they were about to be booted from the only place able to accommodate them until the ferries were able to run again. 

Between some of Sherlock's more off-putting personality traits and his obvious disdain for the local whisky, John felt his concerns weren't unfounded. 

Plastering a fake smile on his face, Sherlock joked with the lads who worked on the ferry thanking them for giving up one of their promised rooms for him and John. 

John wasn't sure if he was relieved or not that Sherlock was shamming at being an average bloke. He couldn't hear every word, but Sherlock seemed to have modulated his speech pattern so that he didn't sound nearly as posh. 

Asking the ferry lads their favourite type of whisky – explaining that he and John were here doing tastings at various distilleries finishing up the day at Bowmore – before unexpectedly having to spend the night on Islay. After taking a poll, he bought a round for the seven crew members as thanks. 

Well, Bowmore bought the round as the company was picking up the entire cost of their trip to Islay. John swirled his glass watching the firelight made the amber liquid glow.

A round of thank yous from the bar heralded Sherlock's return with two drinks. It only took Sherlock a handful of long steps to cross the small common room of the pub before he could gracefully slide back into his chair. Setting the glasses down on the table, he pushed one to John. 

“This, while not from Islay, is local enough as it's from Jura. Which I am informed is a very short ferry ride away. A detail I will be deleting in an instant. It is supposed to be one of the best whiskies around, though most people don't make a point of going to Jura to try for themselves.” Sherlock studied the contents of his glass. “The woman who owns the place grew up there before marrying the man whose family has owned this establishment for three generations. Another fact shortly to be deleted.”

There was only a swallow of Ardbeg left, which John finished and set his empty glass aside.

“Please don't toss this one back as if it were foul medicine,” John requested, glancing over to the bar to see the woman who had poured the drinks watching them. Sherlock followed John's gaze, humming softly under his breath. 

“I worry that the innkeeper will force us to sleep in the car if I treat this whisky the same way I did the Ardbeg.”

John raised his glass, once again studying the way the firelight caught and sparkled in the amber liquid. “To another successfully solved case,” he said, clinking his glass against Sherlock's.

“All the cases I take on are successfully solved,” Sherlock said, after taking a sip.

“Fine, to a successfully solved case where no one tried to throttle you.”

“That only happened once,” Sherlock objected. John gave him a skeptical look. “Fine, twice that you know about. Any other incidence is just speculation on your part.”

“Sherlock, there are seven separate instances that I can recall without trying too hard where someone tried to throttle you.”

“None of those were successful,” Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his left hand.

“Because I stepped in.”

“You do have your uses,” Sherlock said with a smile as he slouched languidly in his chair. Under the table, their legs tangled companionably. 

It was nothing that hadn't happened dozens if not hundreds of times before, but this time warm arousal started to mix with the heat of the whisky that was lazily making its way through John's veins. 

“Tea, making sure the bills get paid, and stopping people from strangling you. Good to know where you find me the most useful.”

“To be fair, I make the tea at least half the time,” Sherlock said, gently nudging John's left knee with his own.

“Yes, but as you've tried to poison me twelve times that I'm aware of just by using tea, that exponentially detracts from the number of times you've made it without poison.”

“I never tried to poison you!”

“Putting unknown substances into someone's food or beverage without their knowledge then watching how they react is poisoning!”

“By that definition, you tried to poison me on your stag night,” Sherlock said imperiously, taking a sip of his whisky. 

“To be fair, I was trying to get us drunk, not poison either of us.”

“Maybe we should agree to try not to poison each other or ourselves in the future.”

“I think that's a splendid idea.” Solemnly, John raised his glass. “I promise not to try to drug, poison, or otherwise alter your food or drink with any substances other than what was intended to be ingested in the aforementioned food or drink.”

“Or get each other more intoxicated than originally planned,” Sherlock added.

“To be fair—” John cut himself off before even finishing the statement; no point in splitting hairs. “Yes. Alright.”

Solemnly, they tapped glasses and sipped their whisky to seal the deal. 

They sat in companionable silence for a while; next to them the fire burned merrily occasionally popping and sparking. When it got low, John leant over and put on a new log. The general din of conversations flowed over and around John as he watched the way Sherlock's fingers curled around his glass, the way he would pause, glass just touching his lush bottom lip ever so slightly, before taking a sip – John wasn't sure if it was to savour or prepare himself for the bite of the whisky – the feel of their legs brushing together when one of them shifted.

In the soft light of the fire, Sherlock's eyes seemed to glow silver as his gaze flitted around the pub, never resting for too long on any one person. Always coming back to rest on John, studying him in a way that was both familiar and new. 

“Who has the best secret?” John asked when Sherlock's attention was once again on him.

“Depends on how you define 'best',” Sherlock said, eyes darting between several people.

“The most interesting to you.”

“The deckhand with the awful brown jumper you were admiring, is going to quit as soon as they get back to the mainland. He's just got a text informing him that a very small charter airline has accepted his application. The pay will be atrocious, but he's put himself through flight school, took two goes to pass his instrument rating, but he can land as smoothly as any pilot with a thousand flights to their credit. Being a pilot was a childhood dream his mother thought was foolish and his father couldn't afford to pay for.”

“Go on, tell us how you know.” John didn't question that Sherlock was right; he nearly always was. Plus, the fun was hearing how he worked things out. Settling back in his seat, John brought his glass to his lips, slightly startled to discover there was barely a mouthful left. 

“He was noticeably not checking his phone, but when he got an email – how he got it when the wifi in here is as reliable as a Fiat is the real mystery – he froze then stepped away under the guise of going to the loo to read it. He was gone for three minutes and forty-two seconds; long enough to read the short email no less than six times and then respond with what I'm sure was a gushingly disgusting display of gratitude to what is sure to be a mind-numbingly boring job flying veterinary supplies to the outer reaches of the Great Britain and Northern Ireland.”

“How did you work out the pilot bit?”

“By the frankly juvenile etching of what I can only assume is supposed to be a 747 into the back of his mobile. Also, the way he was sitting on the bar stool which indicated to me that he has spent significant time in the cockpit of an aeroplane. Also, his knowledge about the airport here is far too extensive to be just idle curiosity.”

“Fantastic,” John said, grinning at Sherlock. And it really was. Hearing how Sherlock could take seemingly minuscule details that appeared to be irrelevant and weave them into an intricate picture. 

“Simple, really,” Sherlock told him, but from the smile that tilted up the corners of his mouth, John could tell that he was pleased by the praise.

“Next round's on me,” John joked. So saying, John stood and made his way over to the bar. 

Taking the friendly advice of the soon to be pilot – the man was vibrating with excitement and John wondered if he would end up quitting before they reached Kennacraig – John ordered Sherlock and himself a round of Bunnahabhain, the distillery closest to the inn. 

John thanked him for both the suggestion and the room he would be sharing with Sherlock and headed back to the table ignoring the knowing smile from the soon to be pilot.

It was a smile that John both wanted to return and caused him to fight a blush. 

It wasn't that John was opposed to the idea of him and Sherlock together (far from it), nor was it that this stranger thought he and Sherlock would end up sharing a bed for more than just sleeping (the man was far from the first to think that they were something more than close friends). No, what made John's stomach flutter nervously and his cock twitch with interest was the fact that it felt as if his relationship with Sherlock was on the cusp of changing. 

And that if either of them looked at it too closely at what was between them, the the potential of more would disappear as easily as fog in a strong wind. Taking a steadying breath, John made his way back to the table he shared with Sherlock.

When John passed Sherlock his glass, their fingers brushed, lingering in a way that could be taken as a caress or the slightly slowed movements of someone starting to feel several alcoholic drinks. 

Trying not to over think, John settled back down into the chair closest to the fire. 

“Cheers,” Sherlock said, raising his glass, eyes locking with John's.

“Slàinte mhor!” John replied, causing Sherlock to blink in astonishment – a look vaguely reminiscent of when John had asked Sherlock to be his best man.  
Clinking their glasses together, John smiled broadly and took a long, slow sip. The toast was echoed from several other patrons of the small pub and John lifted his glass in acknowledgment and sipped again.

The whisky slid smoothly down John's throat, leaving a slight burn and a lovely warm feeling. A peace settled over John as he grinned at Sherlock who was still smiling at him with a bemused look on his face. 

“I didn't know you could do anything but swear in other languages,” Sherlock said after he'd taken a second sip of his whisky.

“I can swear, say cheers, offer medical aid, and invite you into my bed,” John told him proudly, then froze as the exact way he boasted about his last linguistic talent came over sounding more like an offer. 

From across the table, Sherlock studied him, eyes suddenly intense, all traces of the languid relaxation gone. Against his legs, John could feel the sudden taut stillness that froze Sherlock in place.

“Really?” asked Sherlock, voice molten promise over rough inquiry. Eyes boring into John's, Sherlock slowly shifted until both of John's legs were pressed against Sherlock's. “Let's hear them.”

“Which ones?” John asked, throat – and other areas – tightening. 

“Oh, I think we should start with the last on your list.”

John's mind went exquisitely blank, to the point that the only reason his heart kept beating was because it was a biological imperative. 

There was another biological function that seemed to be in full working order as well. 

Luckily, that one was slightly less obvious while sitting down, pulled up to a table.

Scrambling, John frantically tried to make any of the phrases he'd learned while at uni and in the army materialize into words. 

“Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?” came tumbling out of his mouth.

Across from him, Sherlock looked startled, then burst out laughing in such an uninhibited, joyful way that John so rarely saw. Sherlock's whole face lit up with mirth and around them conversations came to a halt. 

Or, maybe, that was how it seemed to John. 

It was so ridiculous, and the line was so incredibly trite and overused, that John couldn't help but join Sherlock in his laughter. 

John felt a flushed mixture of embarrassment, mirth, and lust rising up his neck. There was no way his ears weren't pink, not from how hot they felt; it was one of his more annoying tells and one that Sherlock was sure to notice right off. 

John wondered if he could blame the flush on being so close to the fire. 

“Really, John?” Sherlock asked, still chuckling. “I think nearly every human on the planet knows that one. Regardless if they know any other French or not.”

“I can do better!”

“That's what everyone says about their first time,” Sherlock joked, laugh lines still showing around his eyes. The grin playing about Sherlock's lips was one that John rarely saw; it was one that was – as far as John knew – just for him, and until today, only shared within the walls of Baker Street. 

It was a look that both settled him down with its familiarity, but also stirred his blood because there was a knowing glint to that familiar grin. A knowledge that might have always been there, John reflected, had he been aware enough to look.

“Because it's usually true,” John protested, letting the wicked smile that so often wanted to come out when Sherlock was in a similar moods turn up the corners of his mouth. 

Dropping his gaze, John finally managed to kick start his brain into working. Now it was a case of making sure he didn't mix up his languages. John's store of multilingual lines he used to pull was vast; some people collected coins, others postcards; John collected handy phrases to get a leg over. 

Some were used with great success, others just retained for a lark. A very blunt one had got him a gorgeous man all hard-bodied and skilled tongue in a tea house in Kandahar. John's Pashto had been just enough to convey he was British and open to advances from the fathomless dark eyes and knowing smile. 

Another line John had acquired when a volunteer who worked for Doctors Without Borders (who was very dedicated to her job, but understood the importance of relaxing whenever possible) asking him if he wanted to hook up (American) that time. He remembered her wicked smile and amazing sense of adventure. By the time they'd parted company early three days later, she'd taught John – well into his second tour in Afghanistan – a thing or two.

However, neither of those lines would impress Sherlock. Plus, just blurting out 'Kerim da Koonet Tanget', that he basically wanted to stick his dick in Sherlock's tight arsehole, wasn't on. 

Well, it was, just not quite in this context. 

No, that wasn't right either, because he most definitely wanted to fuck Sherlock – John had lost countless hours to fantasies about fucking Sherlock or being fucked by him – but John wasn't about to come out and say it in the middle of a tiny pub in Scotland. 

Though, John wasn't even sure if Sherlock knew any Pashto, but better safe than sorry. Sherlock knew the most amazing variety of things. 

Judging from the raucous laughter across the room, someone at the bar had said something incredibly funny. Either that, or the evening (and the alcohol consumption) was at the point where nearly everything was funny. Either way, it stood to illustrate to John just how not alone they were. 

John fervently hoped that no one had overheard his pathetic attempt to pull Sherlock. It would be beyond mortifying if—

“John, your complete knowledge base including whatever medical knowledge you've forgotten couldn't possibly take this long to go through,” drawled Sherlock interrupting John's chaotic thoughts. “Let alone the small store of pedestrian phrases in other languages that you're going to mangle as you attempt to demonstrate your powers of attracting someone to have sex with.”

“Bugger off,” John said, still trying to sort out the best lines to use. 

“While technically those words are associated with sexual encounters, they do not qualify as any sort of line one would use to flirt.” Sherlock sipped his drink. “I'm beginning to wonder if your famed reputation was more along the lines of a joke.”

“I'll have you know that I did quite well for myself,” John said.

“So, the Three Continents title isn't just honourary then?”

“I earned it,” John confirmed. 

And how. Probably best not to think about just how many people he'd managed to talk into having some form of sexual relations with him over the years. Nor dwell on how little sex he'd had in the last five years. 

“Is it because you've had sex on three continents or because you've had sex with people from three continents?” Sherlock wondered.

“Well, both really. But mainly having sex on three different continents.” Probably better not say that he'd had sex with people from every continent. Technically, no one was from Antarctica, but that lovely geologist with the jet black hair and amazingly flexible legs had spent two years studying ice there and the first non-work person she'd talked to had been John.

Not that they'd done all that much talking. 

“It must have all been for pity if you used that horrendous French line.”

Right. John's thoughts finally sorted themselves out and he knew what he wanted to say. 

“Vuoi venire a letto con me?" John asked, lowering his voice a bit. Italian was one of the few languages John could get by in for more than just trying to pull someone, thanks to living with Marco for two years while at uni.

“Italian.” Sherlock said the word as if it were a synonym for 'common'. 

"Acuéstate conmigo.”

“Surely you can ask me to go to bed with you in something other than a Romance Language?”

“Let's hear yours,” John demanded, taking a gulp of his whisky.

“Do you really think I need words?” Sherlock asked, giving him a slow, lascivious smile. Under the table, Sherlock rubbed his left knee along John's inner right thigh.

John's cock took full notice and he fought a brief, vicious skirmish between wanting to show Sherlock up and wanting to fuck him right then and there, to hell with the other patrons. 

Or the bottle of commemorative scotch he'd promised himself for not punching or fucking Sherlock.

“Probably not,” John admitted, words slightly strangled. John licked his bottom lip and let some of the want he felt bleed through his normally tightly controlled expression. Fucking gorgeous git. 

Sherlock's knee jerked, nearing dangerous territory. It took John's lust and whisky-addled brain several seconds to realise that he said the last part aloud. 

“Fuck,” John muttered.

“Typical. Anglo-Saxon,” Sherlock said. He finished his whisky and set his glass aside, leaning his forearms on the table, he leaned in closer to John. “Come on. Surprise me.”

“Vil du være med meg hjem?” John asked.

“Scandinavian, obviously.” Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “Not one of the language I'm all that familiar with.”

“Do you want to come home with me? In Norwegian,” John informed him smugly. Happy to have found something that at least made Sherlock pause and think. 

“Considering we live together, that is inevitable,” Sherlock answered. “Something better.”

“Ar mhaith leat an gnéas liomsa?”

A small part of John was happy to note Sherlock's blank expression.

“Scottish?” asked Sherlock blandly, while under the table his knee crept up to the middle of John's thigh. 

“Irish,” John told him, unsure of whether to slouch down in his seat or pull away. If Sherlock continued to shift his leg up John's there would be no hiding just how aroused John was becoming. “Do you want to sleep with me?”

“Well, at some point,” Sherlock drawled, “as we'll both be in same room tonight.” Very slowly, Sherlock lifted and dropped his leg, keeping his eyes locked on John's. “While my sleeping might not be a foregone conclusion, it seems probable.”

Though the words were the absolute truth, the tone – and near continuous motion of Sherlock's leg – implied far more.

Gathering his courage – and digging deep into resources that had not been used for some time – John asked “Chcesz iść ze mną do łóżka?”

“There is only one bed in our room,” Sherlock answered, eyes filled with mirth, smile flirtatious, “so, yes, I do want to go to bed with you.”

Finishing his own whisky, John took a deep breath. There were times in his life where he knew something big was going to happen – the innocuous looking envelope sitting on the side table that turned out to be his acceptance letter from the College of London, that night in the coffee shop studying for finals when chatting with a bloke who was joining the Army, offering his mobile up to a gorgeous stranger – this felt like one of those times. 

He could either wait to see what happened – the envelope sat for three days, conversely less than twenty-four hours after meeting a brilliant madman, John was living with him – or he could make it happen.

Deciding to go for broke – also, to use a language he could converse in – John leaned slowly forward, placing his hands along-side Sherlock's. The move meant that only inches separated their faces. Sherlock's pupils dilated just the slightest as John ran his left thumb over the knob of his ulna. 

“Wollen wir vögeln?” John asked, voice low and filled with the ideas of things that should best happen in private. 

John both felt and heard the soft moan that escaped Sherlock's lips. His eyes widened and under the table, Sherlock's knee slid far enough up John's thigh as to leave no doubt in either of their minds just how hard John was. 

Just to be clear, John repeated his request in English. “Can we fuck?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed out.

John inhaled, taking the word, the acceptance, the want, into him.

“Now?” John asked.

“Fucking on the table is probably not the best plan,” Sherlock said, voice low and filled with promises his knee was just starting to fulfill. “However, as discussed, we have a room and a bed nearby.”

“Coming?” John asked, standing, not bothering to attempt to hide his erection. 

“Hopefully,” Sherlock said, standing with a fluidity that sent bolts of lust straight to John's cock.


End file.
